


Love In The Dark

by laurentinium



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Depression, Eating Disorders, Eventual Smut, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Soldier Keith (Voltron), Suicidal Thoughts, Writer Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23003908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurentinium/pseuds/laurentinium
Summary: Shiro's been depressed since the age of thirteen, barely clinging onto a life that's desperately trying to shake him off. He seeks refuge in books and finds meaning in writing, hiding his own misery behind the grand deeds and successes of the characters he brings to life. But there's nothing harder than trying to live the life he never thought he'd have, and he's not sure if living his dreams through other people is going to be enough to get him through the darkness.
Relationships: Keith & Shiro (Voltron), Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	Love In The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Please make sure you've read the tags and are aware of the themes which will feature in this fic. Depression and anxiety is different for everybody and what I'm portraying here is based off my own experiences and is in no way meant to glorify or romanticise mental illness. If you're sensitive to (somewhat graphic) descriptions to mental health struggles, please be careful when reading. Thank you.
> 
> (Inspired by 'Love In The Dark' by Jessie Reyez)

The bathwater’s long cooled by the time Shiro opens his eyes again, previously sweet scented bubbles reduced to suds, the water cloudy with soap. All warmth has seeped from the tub but he barely feels the cold anymore, vacant expression trained on a spot somewhere between his right foot and the edge of the tub. 

Somewhere down the hall outside the bathroom his phone rings, the shrill sound of his ringtone the only noise in the apartment. Shiro doesn’t move even as it continues to ring, stops, then starts ringing again. He can pretty accurately guess who’s calling him; with only three numbers in his contacts, the amount of people who bother calling him is small - and there’s only one person who ever bothers letting it ring longer than a few moments. 

Outside the door the call goes to voicemail and Matt’s voice sounds through the speaker, sounding too bright and upbeat to fit into the tiny space.

_‘Hey buddy, how’s it going? I know you’re in the zone right now but I need an update on how the second book’s doing. Give me a call when you get this, yeah? No pressure. Take care of yourself.’_

The voice fades and the apartment is once again enveloped in silence, the quiet only broken once Shiro shifts in the tub to get more comfortable. 

No pressure. Of course there’s pressure, but Matt knows well enough by now that giving Shiro a deadline for his writing is almost a guaranteed way of making him stall and miss it. It’s ironic, really. The one thing he’s halfway decent at and he can’t even do that right. Sometimes he wonders why Matt even still bothers with him. He hasn’t made much progress since the last time Matt called about a week ago, bright voice and cheerful disposition instilling some sort of reflective writer’s block in Shiro. 

His laptop’s still sitting on his desk, screen dark, an empty mug of tea beside it. Shiro doesn’t even bother waking it up anymore. Most times the sight of a near empty document is enough to send him spiralling into the opening throngs of a panic attack. 

For some, to him entirely inconceivable, reason his first book had been quite popular. He still has a collection of voicemails left by Matt asking him to attend an author’s signing here, or a public reading there. It’ll help promote the rest of the series once it’s written, Matt continuously insists, seemingly unaware to the reality that Shiro’s barely able to feed himself, let alone write another book.

But Shiro hasn’t been to a single event since the publishing of his work and sometimes all he wants is for the hype to die down so he can go back to being entirely and utterly irrelevant to the world. 

Small waves of water lap at the edge of the bath when he finally moves, the hard surface of the tub numbing his body in a painful way. He shifts, and using both hands to grip onto the edge of the tub, forces himself to step out of the water and into the waiting bathrobe hanging behind the door. He drains the water then turns to the sink to wash his hands and brush his teeth. 

It’s a small enough bathroom as is without the towel covering the mirror above the sink, but Shiro doesn’t need to see his reflection to know how bad he looks; dishevelled short black hair, tired eyes, stubble across his cheeks and chin. It’s more for his own sanity that the mirror is covered than anything else. He doesn’t need constant reminders of how pathetic he is.

The apartment remains silent as ever as he makes his way to the small bedroom to get dressed, the lightbulb flickering feebly after he hits the switch. It’s daylight outside, probably, but Shiro hasn’t opened the blinds in almost two weeks. A pile of dirty clothes sits at the foot of his bed but he walks right past it, instead fishing another set of grey sweatpants and a black hoodie from the wardrobe. 

Once dressed Shiro settles down on his bed with a heavy sigh, the blankets pulled up to his chin while he gets comfortable with a book in his hand. The binding is worn with use and more than a few of the pages are sporting folded corners or tea stains, but if asked Shiro would without hesitation proclaim the old book his most prized possession. There’s nothing special about it, no author’s signature, no date or number marking it as a special edition. He hadn’t even gotten it from his parents before their passing, but rather picked it up in an old second-hand shop somewhere in Tokyo. And yet he still spends the hours before going to sleep or after waking up reading it, the printed words so familiar he can almost recite entire chapters by heart.

It’s comforting and it makes him feel safe, but most importantly it serves as a distraction from everything else around him; from the blinking red dot on his phone telling him Matt’s left another voicemail enquiring about the book, from the dirty laundry he doesn’t have the energy to wash, from the fact that there’s no food not long past its sell by date in the fridge and that every day that passes, he feels more and more like he’s ceasing to exist. 

There are pills in the bathroom cabinet that are supposed to make those feelings go away but he hasn’t touched the bottle in the three months it’s been in his possession. Shiro’s long since come to terms with the fact that he was never meant for anything and he doesn’t see the point in trying to cure himself of the only thing that makes him even the slightest bit interesting - even if it’s killing him day by day. 

It’s not so much a self-depreciating joke but rather a stone cold fact that without his depression, Shiro is nothing. He’d received his diagnosis at the age of thirteen and since then he’s been stuck in limbo, existing aimlessly in a world he doesn’t want to be a part of. Shiro doesn’t let anyone get to close because he doesn’t know who he is, and it feels too much like a lie to let anyone think he’s more than just an empty shell of a man. He tried it once, and he still bears the emotional and physical scars from the breakup. 

In his apartment he’s safe, in his apartment he doesn’t have to pretend. Matt knows better than to drop by uninvited and the only other occasional visitors he has are the mother and eldest son of the large family living a floor beneath him, and that’s only because they’d been the ones to find him outside his door, drunk into oblivion and too out of it to even stand up, after his break-up with Adam. 

But Shiro’s become accustomed to the silence and emptiness of the space around him, much like he’s become used to the constant tightness in his heart or the void in his chest which numbs him from the inside out. He doesn’t need anything else, either. His blankets, albeit unwashed, are warm and safe, his mind temporarily occupied from those self-destructive thoughts by the book in his hands. It’s far from a perfect existence, but then again he’s never planned to live past thirty to begin with.

Five more years and he can stop. Five more years to give Matt and the publishing house the remaining four books he’d promised them. He tries not to think about what a long time five years is.

An hour later his reading is interrupted by a timid knock down the hall, followed by a loud female voice saying something in rapid Spanish before a second fist almost breaks down his door. He’s of half a mind to ignore the visitors and pretend he’s out when the voice sounds again, tone accusatory. 

“Mister Shiro, I know you’re in there! Open the door, you need to eat! We made you apple pie!”

Then, a heartbeat later. 

“Open this door or I’ll fetch my husband to break it down!”

So much for being left in peace. It takes all of Shiro’s mental and physical energy to move out from under the blankets, footsteps quiet on the thick carpet lining the hall as he walks down to open the door.

Outside his door Lance and his mother are holding several paper bags each and the smell of warm food rises to meet Shiro’s nose the moment he sticks his head into the hallway. He knows from experience that there’s no arguing with Maya McClain so he simply steps aside to let them in, making sure to firmly close the door behind them. He’s always felt uncomfortable having people in his apartment and Lance and Maya McClain’s presence had become an exception only after almost a year of constant impromptu appearances at his doorstep. It’s also partly because they never overstep the boundaries he’d firmly set into place after their third visit and the moment he’d realised his gruff appearance and cold demeanour wouldn’t deter them from returning, and Shiro knows they’ll leave if he really needs them to.

Taking a deep breath to gather his thoughts Shiro eventually follows them into the small kitchen area, hardly surprised when he sees Maya fussing over the mould ridden food in the fridge while Lance unpacks a fresh set of Tupperware and a few other groceries onto the counter. He offers Shiro a bright smile at the sight of him leaning against the doorframe, excitedly waving around a packet of beef flavoured instant noodles. 

“Hey man, long time no see! How’s it going? Just wait until you taste this apple pie, it’s killer. Hunk’s grandmother finally gave us the recipe and honestly? I could live off it no problem.” Still talking he steps across the kitchen to set the noodles into one of the cupboards, undeterred by the amount of previously bought items already sitting on the bottom shelf. “Plus we brought some ice cream, and if you have some with the warm pie? It’s awesome.”

Shiro opens his mouth to answer but Lance is already waving him off, expression turning sympathetic, as if he knows exactly what Shiro is going to say. “We made more than enough for all of us, don’t worry. My brother’s bringing one of his friends over for a few days and mom cooked enough to feed their entire squadron.”

Shiro doesn’t know much about the McClain’s other than that Lance works at the local library while finishing his PhD at the university, and one of his brothers is in the military. They’re not exactly friends, although Lance would probably disagree, but Maya had long ago made up her mind that someone needed to check in on Shiro every now and again and promptly volunteered herself and Lance for the task.

He feels a bit guilty at the sight of Maya emptying his fridge of all the food they’d brought him the previous time, but Shiro can’t quite remember the last time he’s had an honest appetite for anything other than white bread with peanut butter, and neither Maya nor Lance say anything. Instead, like a well practiced team, they throw away the spoiled food and re-stock his kitchen with enough supplies to last him at least a month, even though most of it will end up in the trash the next time they visit. 

“I’ll make us some tea. Lance, get out the plates and cutlery. Shiro, clear some space in the living room.” Maya doesn’t look up from where she’s begun slicing up a sweet-smelling apple pie, long dark hair tied up in a neat bun atop her head. She’s a good two-feet shorter than Shiro but her voice leaves no room for debate and twenty minutes later the three of them are tucked into Shiro’s living room and work space with hot mugs of tea and plates of pie and ice-cream. He takes the first few bites to placate her worried frown, and the next few because Lance was right about it tasting amazing and Shiro only ever realises just how hungry he is until he’s eating.

From the corner of his eye he can see Maya look around the room with a furrowed brow, expression softening a little at the sight of the dried up flowers on the windowsill and the dead plants sitting in either corner of the space. He’d tried harder with those plants, guilt nagging at his conscience after Lance told him Maya almost broke her leg carrying them both up to his apartment by herself, but they’d died along with Matt’s flowers the moment Shiro’s mood dropped and he hadn’t had the energy to dispose of them yet.

Lance is looking around the room too but his eyes are more focused on Shiro’s laptop and the notebook spread across the table beside it, lips twitching. He knows better than to ask about Shiro’s writing progress but it’s not hard to see how badly he wants to.

Ever self-conscious about his writing, Shiro hadn’t planned on revealing his identity to Lance or his mother at first. But after Lance had managed to get him slightly drunk off his father’s homemade Peach Schnapps, Shiro had allowed him to take a peek at the notebook. He hadn’t expected Lance to recognise most of the names scribbled on the front page in Shiro’s messy handwriting, and when confronted by an excited Lance, he’d caved and told him about his work. That night he’d spent three hours curled up on the bathroom floor as the waves of a panic attack rushed over him, knocking the breath from his lungs until he was nothing more than a sobbing mess against the black-and-white tiles. But no one had shown up on his doorstep the next day, or the day after, and during their next visit Lance hadn’t treated him any differently. 

Lance is about to open his mouth and Shiro mentally prepares himself for another uncomfortable question he wouldn’t be able to answer when Maya shrieks and jumped up, almost giving Shiro a heart-attack. Lance is on his feet a second later, staring at her with wide eyes.

“What?! What is it? What happened?!”

“Your brother—“ Maya's already disappeared back into the kitchen with a series of muttered curses and Shiro hears her grab her bag off the floor along with the paper bag of now empty Tupperware containers. “— tomorrow morning—“ A thump as she bumps into the kitchen table then comes back into view, one hand on the doorknob. “I have to finish cleaning his room. Lance, once you’re done, take down those flowers and plants then come help me.”

Anxiety spiking at the thought of inconveniencing them Shiro stands up, holding out a hand towards her. “He can come now—“

“No, I’ll stay,” Lance says derisively behind him, “I’ll come help in a while, mom. Go clean.”

With his arm still outstretched Shiro only just manages to balance himself against the wall when Maya takes his hand and yanks him in to kiss both his cheeks and tousle his hair. Shiro very well knows the look on her face, the one that tells him she has so many more things he doesn’t think he can handle hearing to say to him, but then it disappears behind a kind smile and she brings a hand down to gently pat his shoulder. 

“We’re proud of you, Shiro."

Lance settles back down on the sofa once his mother’s left the apartment and Shiro folds his legs to sit on the carpet across from him, the rest of his pie and tea forgotten. He only looks up again when Lance stretches out his foot to nudge Shiro’s knee and he looks down to realise he’s just about anxiety fiddled thumbholes into the sleeves of his hoodie. 

“You okay?” Lance’s voice is soft and the rational part of Shiro’s brain knows he means well, but for someone like him it’s an awfully loaded question and one he doesn’t even know where to begin to answer. So he just nods and offers back a ferociously unconvincing smile, hoping that Lance won’t push the subject. 

He doesn’t and together they fall into a few moments of peaceful silence.

“Thanks,” he eventually manages to say, dragging the word out from the bottom of his chest with all his mental strength. “For uh. For asking. For the food. You know you guys don’t have to look after me—“

Lance waves him off with a one-shouldered shrugs mouth half-full of pie. “S’not because we feel like we gotta. Y’know, with Marco in the army and Luis movin’ out, mom’s just trying to replace that two-kid shaped hole in her heart. And sorry to say this, but you’re the closest target.” He grins, and Shiro tries hard not to overthink the implications behind those words. “She’s locked and loaded on to you now, so there’s no escaping us. Besides you’re cool. I like comin’ up here and hanging out. You’re a good friend.”

Except that they’re not friends. Shiro’s just the grumpy upstairs neighbour who shows no appreciation for the food Maya cooks and brings because he sometimes can’t bring himself to get out of bed for days on end, and he hates the thought of being a charity case. He doesn’t deserve Maya’s kindness, or Lance’s understanding. On all accounts they should hate him by now. He never does anything for them in return, he rarely eats the food they bring, and he still tries to avoid them when they knock or he sees them in the stairwell. Lance and Maya McClain are too good for someone like Shiro, and he’s just waiting for them to figure that out for themselves.

“Uh-oh, he’s thinking again.” Lance teases, but it holds no mirth. He pauses to see if Shiro’s going to reply, and when it becomes apparent he won’t, Lance continues with a light tone. “You’ll have to come by for dinner again some time. And by some time I mean tonight. It’s been ages. Plus, with Marco and his friend around, there will be quite a few people around the table.” Meaning he won’t be the centre of attention. He’s met Marco only once but he knows him to be a loud and lively character, much like the rest of his family; the perfect front to hide behind. And if Lance is inviting him to dinner it means Maya told him to, and Shiro doesn’t think he can disappoint her twice in one day. He promises to think about it and let them know before tomorrow, and Lance leaves an hour later after they’ve rattled through all their usual conversation topics and Shiro can feel himself grow tired again. 

Even after he’s alone again it takes him a while to gather his strength to drag himself back towards his bedroom, collapsing back onto the mattress without taking off his slippers. The corner of the book’s spine presses into his chest and he groans quietly, a hand coming up to thread through his hair. 

Dusk filters in through the closed blinds, bathing his bedroom in the early throws of night. The faint sound of cars outside their building settles as background noise to his thoughts, expression blank as he stares at the wall beside his window. His heart aches, the heavy weight sitting on his chest pressing down against his ribs until he feels like he’s suffocating. He’s too tired to move, too tired to cry even when the overwhelming sadness in his soul threatens to tear him apart without mercy.

Shiro hasn’t been honest with himself in a very long time and the weight sitting somewhere between his shoulder blades grows heavier with each day. He thought he’d been getting better for a while, fooled by a brief reprieve from the gnawing despair that is his life. He’d managed to finish his book and get it published, managed to show up to a meeting with Matt and the publishing house’s representative to sign a contract for four more books. He’d even gained a little weight, and Maya had complimented him on it all. 

But like all the bittersweet goodness in his life it hadn’t lasted long, and when he fell back down, he fell hard. Lazy naps turned into days without moving from under his blankets, the few bites he’d managed to eat resurfacing in the sink not long after.

Shiro hasn’t been honest with himself in a very long time because it scares him, and when that fear of the miserable truth makes his skin crawl in the worst of ways he feels more alone than ever.

\-----

“Are you sleeping enough? Hello? Shiro?”

Matt’s voice breaks through the dim haze engulfing Shiro’s mind the next morning and when he props his head against his hand to look over at his manager, Matt looks concerned. 

“I’m fine, Matt. You know how it is.”

“Sure, I guess,” Matt replies, entirely unconvinced, but Shiro manages to hold his gaze long enough for the topic to be dropped and for Matt’s usual cheery demeanour to return full-force. “I have good news!”

The 24-Hour diner they’re meeting at has seen better days but it’s Shiro’s favourite place because it somehow reminds him of himself; somewhat unkempt and unloved but still standing, a ways away from the bustle of the city, and usually nice and quiet. The waiting staff all know him well enough that they don’t try and talk to him outside of offering him frequent green tea refills and Shiro appreciates each and every one of them more than he can articulate. When Matt had appeared at his front door the morning after Lance and Maya’s visit, practically forcing Shiro out of the building by pulling at his hand, he’d grudgingly let himself be seduced by the idea of tea and pastries on Matt’s dime. 

“They want to turn your book into a movie.”

Shiro coughs around the swallow of tea, setting down the cup with an incredulous stare. His book? His _only_ book so far. A movie would mean more attention, and more pressure to finish the series as soon as possible. Matt must’ve mistaken his dumbfounded expression for one of shock rather than dread because he continued on even before Shiro could shake his head, gesturing wildly with his hands. 

“I know it’s only one book so far, but they reckon by the time they’ll have it ready you’ll have the second one out and the third one in the works! Shiro, Black Paladin was a massive hit. This is an incredible opportunity. Do you want me to call them back and say you’ll think about it? Will you think about it? This is everything you wanted, right?”

No. Absolutely, definitely, one-hundred percent not what Shiro wanted. He wanted to be able to write without the constraints of time-pressure and Matt breathing down his neck for weekly updates. He wanted to be able to write because he enjoyed it, because the words on the paper were the only way for him to escape. In his stories he was the hero, the one with an interesting life, the one unhindered by crippling clinical depression and anxiety, the one with the entire world as his feet. He’d struggled to even publish Black Paladin at first, anxious not only about overwhelming negative feedback but also about sharing those dreams with the world. They were his dreams, his ideas - no one else had the right to them. But Matt had convinced him, and while the sudden influx of money certainly did no harm, sometimes he wonders if that nagging feeling in his gut is regret.

Matt clears his throat and Shiro realises he still has to answer. He’s loathe to disappoint Matt’s dreams in such a way, his friend’s smile and expression so excited and hopeful it reminds Shiro of his younger self. But already it feels like there’s not enough air left in the room for him to breathe, and under the table his hands are starting to shake.

“Matt, I—“

“You’ll think about it. I’ll let them know.” Matt’s voice is firm and commanding and Shiro lets it go because he doesn’t have the energy to negotiate anything less at the moment. He wants his apartment and his bed, the safety of closed blinds and darkness and the pages he can lose himself in to make all the rest go away. “There’s no rush. Just keep working on the second book and we’ll figure the rest out along the way.”

There’s nothing else left to figure out but he reluctantly nods his acquiescence and Matt’s immediately pulling out his phone to tap out a text or email to whichever idiot thinks it’s anywhere near a good idea to turn Shiro’s book in a film. A few years ago he might have been excited by the prospect, but now it fills him with nothing more than dread. Added to the anxiety he’s already feeling about going to the McClain house for dinner in a few hours and he really just wants to curl up and block out the rest of the world for a while.

They finish their breakfast in somewhat subdued silence and Shiro is so relieved when Matt announces he has a meeting to attend, he almost sighs out loud.

“Sheesh, you don’t have to be that happy to get rid of me.” Matt whines while he waits for his card to go through, and Shiro can’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. For all his flaws, Matt’s a good friend. “Look, take the rest of the day off. Go to your dinner thing, have some _fun_ , then call me tomorrow and we’ll decide where to go from here. I’m on your side, Shiro. If you really don’t want to do the movie…” It’s almost visible how much it hurts him to say it, but Matt just pushes up his glasses and sigh. “Then I’ll tell them no. Your call. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”

It’s raining when they step out of the diner and Matt claps him on the shoulder once before disappearing into a waiting Uber. Shiro had waved off the offer of a lift home, and he waits until the car vanishes around the corner before beginning the walk.

Marmora isn’t big, but it’s busy enough for Shiro to be able to blend in with the rest of the crowd. The hood of his raincoat is pulled down low enough to shield his face from the rain, shoulders hunched against the wind. It’s a twenty minute walk from the diner back to his block, one he’d usually shorten by taking a bus, but he’s always liked walking in the rain and the fresh air manages to clear his head just the slightest bit.

Matt’s words still ring in his mind as he walks, hands shoved deep into his pockets. A movie. Of his book. The mere thought makes his heart race. It’s a monumentally bad idea, and he’s sure that once the producers and scriptwriters realise just how bad the book is, they’ll drop both the project and make sure he never sells another copy again.

Shiro writes mainly for himself, to ease the pain of living in a world so cold it sometimes steals his breath, but there’s no denying that it’s been nice to see other people enjoy the story, despite his initial hesitation about even publishing it. A big film studio branding his book as shit would destroy that little bubble he’s built around himself. Matt would never get his second book, let alone a series, and Shiro’s not sure he’d ever be able to survive without his creative outlet.

He continues walking, lost in thought, and the next moment he’s sprawled on the ground with a stranger half-way on top of him, the hard impact of his back against concrete sending a sharp pain up his spine. Somewhere in the distance tires screech and the sound is followed by the wailing of sirens as two police cruisers speed down the road he’d been about to cross.

The stranger shifts his weight to stand and offers Shiro a hand up. He’s dressed in military uniform and there’s a fierce scowl on his face, the full force of which is directed at Shiro. The soldier shakes his head, pointing an accusing finger at Shiro’s face.

“You need to watch where the hell you’re walking.”

Stunned, it’s all he can do to watch the police cruisers disappear around the next corner before turning back to the man who’d saved his life. He’s not much shorter than Shiro but he’s imposing enough that Shiro takes a small step back, reaching down to brush the dirt off his jeans. The soldier’s still staring at him with narrowed eyes, unruly black hair tumbling all over the place from the fall.

Shiro’s mind continues to reel as the man stares at him, his expression softening somewhat until he squints and takes a step closer. 

“Did you hit your head? Who’s the president of the United States?”

“Don’t make me say it.” The words come out before he can think twice, but the soldier just lets out an exasperated huff and lowers his hand. “I- _fuck_. Thank you— thank you so much.”

“Fuck is right,” the man replies dryly, reaching down to straighten out his uniform. A small crowd has gathered around them, with curious onlookers stopping just long enough to confirm that nothing interesting happened before moving on. “You almost died. Look where you’re going next time, I won’t always be there to save you.”

Still staring, Shiro watches the soldier give him one last look before turning to walk away, the crowd parting for him like the Red Sea. His heart’s beating in his chest like a rattled bird in its cage, and there’s a dull ache spreading through his lower back. Eventually the crowd disperses and Shiro all but jogs across the street and back to his building, face burning. He just about makes it to his bathroom before throwing up half the pastry and four cups of tea he’d had with Matt, fingers trembling so violently he struggles to turn off the tap.

After rinsing his mouth it’s all he can do to stagger back into the living room and collapse on the sofa, faint tremors shaking his body from head to toe. He’s pretty sure the sound of screeching tires will stay with him for the rest of his life, and when Shiro reaches up to touch his cheeks he half expects them to be grated raw and bleeding. Instead he finds them very much intact and he has to come to the somewhat embarrassing conclusion that he’s bright red, and holy _shit_ , he’s never felt more alive in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always really appreciated.


End file.
